The man needed questioning. But first, if Rollie’s location was known and if he was going to deal with more folks such as the Dickey twins, trying to cash in on a bounty on his head, he’d feel a whole lot better if he looked the part of the man they would all come to town looking for.
He pulled out his razor, his strop, a small, clouded hand mirror, and his shaving soap and brush.
By God, he’d give them the Stoneface Finnegan they all expected to find.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The coolness of fresh air on his newly shaved cheeks and chin was a daylong surprise to Rollie, so much so that he occasionally rubbed a hand over them as if to remind himself the beard was indeed gone. He thought he’d looked all right in it, but now that he was back to his lightly waxed and curled mustache, it seemed he’d finally gotten over the attack in the alley. No longer did he feel, as he had throughout the months since the attack, that he’d been riding a riled mustang he couldn’t break.
It had thrown him a few times, piled him into the rails more than once, but odd as trekking to and then settling in Boar Gulch had been, for the first time since he’d arrived, Rollie felt like it was the best decision he’d made in many years. Maybe it had been the only real choice.
He didn’t mind giving over to trailing threads that led deeper into thoughts, but today he was content to enjoy the notion that he was well and truly back. As close as he was likely to be, anyway.
He ran his fingers over the repair job Pops had done on the table leg—impressive given the lack of materials at hand—and felt pretty good about his offer to the man to make him a junior partner. If not jumping up and down with excitement, he could tell Pops had been surprised by the offer. Even better because it had been heartfelt.
Rollie needed help, and without money he had little to offer a man with Pop’s estimable talents. That notice in the newspaper told Rollie he was going to need more than help with running the bar.
At that moment, a shadow emerged, angled in through the doorway and followed by the person who made it. Rollie’s hand sliced down to palm the grip of his revolver. Even backlit by the sun, Rollie could see it was a woman. Lugging a carpetbag and squinting a little at the darker interior, she stepped into the bar.
Rollie walked from behind the bar. “Here,” he said, “let me help you with that bag. Come on in.”
From behind her in the doorway, Big Swede’s voice rumbled. “Don’t mind if I do.” He chuckled and followed the woman inside. Two more men, smaller than Swede but no less offensive in smell and sight and demeanor, trailed in behind him like hopeful ducklings after their mama.
“Gents,” said Rollie, turning his attention back to the woman. “Don’t crowd the lady.”
They paid him no mind.
“It’s all right,” she said, unwrapping a scarf she had draped over her hair and tied beneath her chin. Her hair was long, pinned loose atop her head in thick swirls. “They kindly gave me a ride up the last bit of road to here.” She regarded Rollie from three or four feet away. Her brow furrowed as if trying to place him, or as if making a decision about him.
For a brief moment, Rollie felt fixed to the spot like a butterfly pinned to a board. Then he broke the spell and smiled. “Can I get you something to drink? I don’t have much in the way of food, but I do have some bread and decent cheese. Coffee, how about coffee?”
“That sounds fine. Thank you.”
She arranged her hair and smoothed her coat. Rollie could tell she wasn’t wealthy, but it appeared she’d preserved what she had. The coat was older and mended, but by someone who took care to match the cloth and sew patches on with tiny, precise stitches.
“Ain’t you gonna ask us what we want, Finny?”
Rollie looked at the three men. “Seems like you ought to be working those claims of yours, it being daylight. Unless I’m wrong and they’ve proved up beyond your wildest dreams.”
“Don’t you go mocking me, barkeep. And don’t go telling me what I should be doing, you hear?”
Rollie eyed the man in silence until Swede dropped his eyes. Rollie poured three beers. While he was doing that, Swede and his two cohorts surrounded the standing woman.
“Come on, woman. We give you a ride and all. I’m about to offer you another one.” He grinned at his friends, who made low, grunting animal noises. “You know you need what I got.”
The woman looked up at him. “The crotch itch? Nope, got that already. About the only thing with any worth my husband left me. Worth more than the claim, I reckon.”
Big Swede shrugged. “That don’t matter to me none, lady.” He stepped in close, brushing his ample belly against her breasts. “I got that already. And the drip, too. Plus I got this sore that won’t heal. I even have a lousy claim, too!” He thought this was worth braying over.
She was staring up at the man crowding her, and didn’t seem intimidated by the big idiot in the least.
“That’s enough, Swede. Looks to me like the lady’s not interested in your proposal.” Rollie watched the big man’s cheek muscles bunch like a flexed arm. Something changed and Big Swede’s leer melted. A grunt rose up from his throat and he shoved his two pals aside to get to the beer.
Rollie took over the woman’s coffee and set it down on the table top beside her. “Bread and cheese coming up,” he said.
And that’s when Swede’s big meaty fist drove into the side of Rollie’s head. The blow dropped the barkeep to one knee, and his head whipped to the side. He saw stars and felt hot pain, as if fireworks were going off inside his skull.
Rollie kept low and drove upward with both fists clenched tight together. The battering ram caught Swede under his big, bony, hard chin. It would be too much to hope the man would tuck tail and scamper home to his run-down log shanty a half mile away along the northeast road. His two dumb friends stared at the unfolding fight and backed away.
So much for friends, he thought.
Rollie stood fast, pushing up from the floor and using his momentum to land another solid blow angled inward at Swede’s temple. It worked. The big man grunted, and a thin, whining sound whistled through his nose as he dropped to his knees, then flopped to his side.
“You two,” said Rollie to the underlings. “Drag him out of here. I don’t want to see any of you for at least a week.”
The woman didn’t look at Rollie. He wasn’t looking for thanks, but it seemed odd that she didn’t thank him for getting rid of Big Swede.
He walked back to the bar and she said, “I’m Delia. Delia Fitzsimmons.” She extended her hand.
He took it and shook. “Folks call me Finn.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“So, you have a claim.”
She nodded.
“Well, that’s good. Talk is that the hills hereabouts are promising.” He chuckled as he dried an already dry mug. “In fact, to hear the miners tell it, we’re all standing on a mountain of pure gold. The soil’s the only thing between us and a vast fortune.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” she said.
Rollie looked up to find her once again studying him as if she knew him somehow. He was certain he’d never met her before. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t welcome getting to know her. She was the prettiest woman he’d seen in a long time. Certainly since leaving Denver City, which, he knew, didn’t mean all that much. Camp Sal was about the only woman he’d seen in all that time.
He was about to do yet another thing on this fine day that was out of character for him. He had a sudden idea and told himself he was going to act on it. A picnic. He’d ask her to accompany him on a picnic.
As soon as he opened his mouth to suggest it, she stood and said, “How much do I owe you for the refreshments? And for your chivalry?”
“Oh, no, that’s nothing. Welcome to Boar Gulch.” I’m an idiot, Rollie told himself.
“Well, thank you once again, Mr. Finn. I must get going. I’m renting a room from a Chauncey Wheeler. Could I trouble you for directi
ons?”
“Oh, right, Yes, that’d be Wheeler’s Mercantile. He has a shack out back he lets out to miners until they get their cabins built.” Out on the porch, he pointed to the store. “Can’t miss the mercantile. It’s the only one in Boar Gulch.”
She turned to face him, giving him that same odd stare. Maybe he thought he saw something of eagerness, hopefulness, admiration in her eyes. Ask her, he told himself. Ask her to go on a picnic . . .
“Good-bye for now, Mr. Finn. I appreciate your hospitality.”
Rollie watched her walk down the main street of Boar Gulch, then sighed and tidied the bar for the second time that day. Idiot, he thought. I am a top-grade idiot.
Hours later, Pops and Wolfbait clanked, squawked, and rumbled into town with the week’s shipment of supplies. At the mercantile they unloaded everything that Chauncey had ordered then proceeded on down to the saloon. Pops grabbed a wooden crate of full bottles and caught Rollie spiffing his mustache in the mirror behind the bar.
“Pardon me, young man,” said Pops, setting the crate down on the bar. “You seen a cranky old guy with a beard, oh, about your height?”
Rollie couldn’t help offering a quick grin. He shrugged and headed for the door to help unload. “Now that I’m in the news, might as well give up any pretense of laying low.”
Wolfbait appeared in the doorway. “You two want to give me a hand unloading these crates, or are you going to yammer the day away up there like a couple of old hens? Don’t know how I got roped into this anyway. I’m too old and mean to go bouncing around the mountains on the plank seat of a buckboard. I’ve sat on rocks softer than this!”
“Not my wagon,” said Rollie. “Bring it up with the mayor.”
“The mayor,” said Wolfbait as if he’d tasted something foul and couldn’t get the flavor off his tongue. “In his own head, anyway.” He swung a crate over the edge of the wagon for Rollie to grab. “Say, Nosey was right. You look better without the beard. Course, he was wrong about me.” Wolfbait fluffed his own long, food-speckled beard. “The ladies like what I have growing here.”
“What? Mushrooms?” Pops winked at Rollie, and they both rolled their eyes as Wolfbait launched into a fresh tirade of choice words directed at the two of them.
“I can’t recall ever being called a young whelp. You?” said Pops.
“Nah. The trip okay? No troubles?”
“No,” said Pops. “Nothing odd. Only folks we saw were two, three down at the depot. Course, they all looked at me like I was about to rob them blind. Wolfbait had to reassure them I was a good boy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Not a worry. I’m used to it,” said Pops.
“I mean that you had to be defended by Wolfbait.” It was Rollie’s turn to wink at Pops.
Nosey walked in, carrying only his notebook and writing in it as if daylight were about to pinch out any second. Half-moon smudges of rosy-gray and purple were lined beneath his eyes, and his broken nose was swollen worse than the day before. Rollie suspected the man had set it himself. That took some doing.
Rollie had been down that particular path a few years back after a boisterous apprehension of a drunk embezzler who’d landed a lucky punch to Rollie’s face. He’d rapped the man on his bald bean a few extra times for good measure.
* * *
An hour or so later, with the addition of a couple of quiet, early-afternoon drinkers staring moodily at their emptying glasses, the near silence was broken by Wolfbait. “Shh! Shush, I tell ya. Everybody hush!”
The other patrons and the three barmen quieted down and stared at the old man.
Wolfbait looked around. “You hear that?”
After a few moments, Pops said, “I don’t hear anything.”
Then silence again.
“There!” Wolfbait said, pointing toward the bar. “It’s coming from over there.” As if he were an old bloodhound following a thin scent, he got up and sniffed his way around behind the bar and right over to Rollie. He put an ear to Rollie’s chest. “It’s inside you, mister!”
They all crowded around. Rollie backed away from the old man. “All right, all right. That’s enough. Who needs a refill?”
Nosey regarded Rollie a moment with narrowed eyes, then said, “You should get that looked at.”
“Why? Then I’d sound like everybody else.”
“Man has a point,” said Pops, chuckling. “Good thing his hat covers it.”
Though red-faced, even Rollie joined in the laughter.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rollie didn’t see the buxom blond woman again for a full day. By that time he had chided himself a couple of times for using up any pretenses he could think of to look up and down the road for sign of her. He’d seen her once out front of the mercantile, laughing at something Chauncey had said to her.
Before that, the mayor had not given Rollie many reasons to trust him, let alone like him, but it rankled to see the mayor charming her. Even though Rollie had received little from her in the way of encouragement, amorous or otherwise, there was something about her that intrigued him.
The analytical part of him wanted to know why he felt this way. What was it about her, apart from her obvious charms—that long hair the color of turning aspen leaves, the full bosom and slender hips beneath her tidy, obviously older but maintained dress. He’d caught her eyeing him, not in a lusty sort of way, but as if assessing him. That part intrigued him.
“Mop water.”
Rollie turned to see Pops, aproned and squinting at him, holding a tall tin bucket brimming with brown water. “The mop bucket. Where you want it dumped?”
“Oh, I . . . ah, out back.”
“Uh-huh. Why don’t you go talk to the woman? Then maybe you’ll be worth something.”
Rollie gave Pops his best Stoneface stare and walked in the opposite direction. He hadn’t gone far before wishing he had his cane. He needed it now and again, but he’d be damned if he was going to gimp around town in front of that woman.
Later that day, Rollie and Pops were alone in the bar, except for Wolfbait, who had become even more of a fixture seated at the bar than usual. Rollie didn’t mind, and kept him in beer or coffee, depending on Wolfbait’s preferences. The old man had proved useful in accompanying Pops on the weekly supply run. Pops said the old-timer was a dab hand at driving the team, so they’d switched off now and again, with Pops covering them with Lil’ Miss Mess Maker.
Delia Fitzsimmons appeared in the open doorway. “Knock knock.”
“Come on in,” said Rollie. “Care for a cup of coffee?”
“Sounds good.”
He poured one for her and one for himself. Pops found yet another chair that looked to be on the edge of falling apart, retired to a far corner of the room, and set to work fixing it. Wolfbait wandered over with his own cup of coffee to lend a hand.
“So, Miss Fitzsimmons,” said Rollie, leaning on the bar. “How do you like Boar Gulch so far?”
She looked right in his eyes and her smile slid away. With it went any vestige of warmth in her blue eyes. “I hate this foul little lice-infested rat hole. I’m here for one reason, but it’s a good one. And that alone makes it worth enduring this place.” She made no attempt to keep her words quiet. If anything, she spoke them loud enough for Pops and Wolfbait to hear.
Rollie stood up. “Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Fitzsimmons.”
“Aren’t you curious to know why I’m here?”
“You mentioned a claim your husband left you.”
“Ha!” she smacked the bar top with a palm. “There’s no claim and there’s no husband. Might have been at one time. But not now. Not ever. Here’s a clue. My name is not Delia Fitzsimmons, you idiot. It’s Delia Holsapple.” She stared hard at Rollie, urging him to recall that name.
He did, and stepped back a pace, hands by his sides.
“What? Going to kill me, too?” she said. “Glad to see you remember the name, though. You recall my father
, don’t you?”
“Roger Holsapple,” said Rollie, returning her hard stare.
“Yep, the one and only. My dear daddy, the man you killed.”
“He was an embezzler.” Rollie remembered the case as well as he did any of them. Maybe more so. But this girl, she couldn’t have been more than . . .
She was nodding. “You remember me now, don’t you, you randy old goat?” Again she swatted the bar top. “I was a teenage girl, sure, but not too young to lose everything, eh, Stoneface?”
Rollie remembered the trial. It hadn’t been anything too extraordinary. The man was father to a large brood, and as unlikely seeming as anyone to commit a crime. But Rollie had learned years before that there was no particular look of innocence or guilt, just as there was no black or white in the world. Everything in life was a shade of gray. Good and evil; dark, light; right, wrong. Didn’t matter. Nothing was all one or all the other.
Holsapple had been a trusted clerk, and he had a large family. Too large to feed and clothe properly on his modest weekly takings, apparently. So he’d begun to supplement the paycheck with a little bit of cash here and there from his employers’ books. No one need ever know, no one need ever find out. But someone did know. Someone did find out.
The harpy of a wife of one of the partners for years had quietly double-checked the company books on a monthly basis. She trusted no one. Rollie always felt a bit bad for her husband. Slope-shouldered, he walked about the firm from waking to sleep as though he wore a weighted ox yoke.
It was she who’d suspected Holsapple, but could not prove it. Pinkerton had been contacted and had sent Rollie in as an undercover clerk. That had been a stretch, as such positions usually went to younger men. But he’d been taken in and had, over the course of a month, discovered firsthand the crimes and the techniques Holsapple had used to commit them. He was a creative numbers worker, Rollie had given him that much.
The entire thing was expected to be open and shut, and was. Rollie’s testimony had once more nailed the lid closed on the prosecution’s case. Holsapple was given a five-year prison sentence. He’d wept like a shivering babe in the courtroom, and Rollie had silently wished the man would be more of a man, take the punishment society deemed suitable for his crimes. But it didn’t work out that way.
By the Neck Page 8
